


Ritual

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sauna, Shippy as fuck, That bathhouse in Braavos, inspired by traumjanos' fabulous fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davos convinces Stannis to join him in a Braavosi bathhouse after speaking with Salladhor Saan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> This is set just after the episode "The Laws of Gods and Men," S4E6. It was inspired by an idea from [ididntcomeheretoeatfruit](http://ididntcomeheretoeatfruit.tumblr.com) and by a piece of fanart by [traumjanos](http://traumjanos.tumblr.com). The art is [here](http://traumjanos.tumblr.com/post/115404738731) (NSFW).

It had been easier than Davos had thought to find a secluded chamber in the sprawling bathhouse of Braavos, and it had cost less coin than he had imagined to post a slip of a young man at its door as guard. Salladhor Saan’s name bought more than the gold when it came to securing the fellow’s confidence — his name, and the promise of the company of certain of his crewmen later — still, Davos reflected, it had all been simpler than he had hoped.

Getting Stannis Baratheon alone in the steaming room with him was another matter.

It wasn’t that the king didn’t wish it. Davos had known him too long to even let such thoughts enter his mind — had known him in every way a man can know another, had loved him so long and so well that he knew Stannis as well as the wide seas he adored. The problem was not Stannis’ desire, but his will and his insistence that they be discreet, all the time secret, never letting anyone know the true nature of their friendship.

“You see these men,” Davos finally said in frustration, gesturing around him more violently than he would have liked. “They sit, they soak, they talk. There is a closed door and there another. No one knows what happens behind them.”

“Davos, _no one_ must know,” Stannis insisted. “Why are you so adamant? Is it only—”

“No,” Davos interrupted, though his king was right; it had been far too long since they had been able to enjoy each other in any way other than furtive, silent trysts that lasted just minutes before they scurried back to their separate chambers like mice in the dark. “You, Sire … you are angry through and through, though you have won the Iron Bank.”

“ _You_ won the Iron Bank,” Stannis reminded him, almost smiling through a tense jaw, “you and the dotage of Tywin Lannister.”

Davos inclined his head. “I did my best for you, as I ever have and will. Stannis,” and he lifted his king’s chin with a gentle touch, forcing Stannis to look him in the eye. “We’ll soon be in the frigid North. We sail at sunrise. You’re as cold and brittle as that Wall. Let me warm you now.”

“This place is warm enough,” retorted Stannis. “Give me your word, smuggler, that you will not risk my reputation in this strange city.”

“Your Grace can even keep your armor on,” Davos said archly. “But as for myself, I can make no such promises.”

 

True to his word, Davos shed his smothering clothing the instant the heavy cedar door was closed behind them. He laid his mantle, heavy gloves, surcoat, tunic, breeches and finally his smallclothes, sticking wetly to his skin by that point, in a corner. He sat himself down on one of the hot benches and waited.

It only took a moment. “Seven hells, Davos,” Stannis gasped through the mist. “You mean for me to perish in here. The Prince that was Promised, boiled alive in an Essos den of iniquity. If only my brother Robert were here to see me he would choke himself to death laughing.” He began unlacing his own thick leather cloak. 

“Let me,” Davos said, rising. He had loved undressing Stannis since the first time he did so, just a few days after Stannis had shortened his smuggler’s fingers — it was almost more than Davos could take to even invite the memory, here in this steam and heat. If he let himself think of it … no. He focused on Stannis as he was now, in front of him — “a man in his prime,” as he had told Tycho Nestoris earlier that day. With practiced touch he shed Stannis of his clothing, more briskly than he would have liked to spare Stannis further discomfort.

Stannis stood before him, bare and thin, so thin still. Davos hated to think of what had so weakened his king; he had his suspicions — blood magic, despair, self-denial — but he vowed that he would see to it that Stannis regained some weight in the North, wights or no wights. 

“Care to take a seat?” Davos asked, gesturing to the wooden bench. But Stannis did not sit; it was not in his nature. Instead, he looked around restlessly.    
“What’s that?” he nodded to a basket in another corner. It was full of fragrant, short branches that seemed to provide their own steam. 

“Ah. A tradition here in Braavos. Striking the skin with the wood and leaves is said to work wonders on the skin and circulation.”

“You learned this from the pirate?” Stannis was looking at him keenly. 

“No, Your Grace. I learned when I last came here … before I entered your service.”

“You were young then.”

“Not so very young,” Davos laughed. “There was a group of women here then — not that type, Stannis — grandmothers, more like septas or healers. For a half-groat they would strip you down and whip you with these branches, then spread salve on your stinging skin and leave you to cook here until you recovered enough to leave.”

Stannis looked half intrigued, half disgusted. “And you … availed yourself?”

“I did,” Davos answered. “As I recall, it was not unpleasant in the least. There was something that was very … vigorous about it. Like your skin was coming alive.”

“You did win the Iron Bank over to my cause,” Stannis said, seemingly randomly. “This … with the branches, this is something I could do for you, if you liked. Or would you rather go and find the grandmothers?”

A pleasantly shivery feeling ran through Davos’ entire body. He had never considered that Stannis would perform the Braavos bathhouse rituals on him; he had only thought to get Stannis alone and warm and relaxed. But this was beyond his imaginings. “If it would not feel dishonorable, Your Grace—”

“ _Stannis_ ,” growled the king. That was when Davos knew he could drop the pretense of titles and power — when Stannis insisted upon being called his given name. Davos smiled, broadly — he couldn’t help it. 

“With one condition,” he said.

Stannis looked irritated. “Yes?” 

“That you let me subject you to the ... treatment first. That way, you’ll know what to do.”

“Agreed,” said Stannis after a moment. “Do I lie down?”

“Not yet,” Davos said. He turned and took up a handful of the green and brown branches, and their scent wafted up and through the air. Stannis looked apprehensive, so Davos laid his other hand on his chest, calming him. “I won’t hurt you, you know.”

“You needn’t be gentle.” Stannis looked almost angry that Davos would dare to hold back with him. 

Pressing his hand against his king’s thin chest harder, Davos knitted his eyebrows and looked straight into the stormy blue eyes. “As you wish.”


End file.
